


Ancient Rage With a Love Song

by apollofastingdionysusdrunk (orphan_account)



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Fluff and Angst, King and Lionheart, M/M, Mad Max: Fury Road-inspired, Mutual Pining, Pining Achilles, Post-Apocalypse, Sexual Content, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 19:01:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4233165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/apollofastingdionysusdrunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the battle of the gods swiped civilization from the Earth and turning it into wasteland, the Greek cities turned to clans in order to fight and kill for survival. Patroclus is prince to the Opus clan, though he doesn't feel like one considering his strained relationship with his warrior king of a father and his passion for medicine instead.</p><p>His challenge arises when the famed Prince Achilles - savage, divine, glorious Achilles - and his troop of Myrmidons were attacked. Patroclus uses his healing skills to save Achilles’ life, at first disgusted by the boy’s egoism and cockiness. But as time passes, consequence and surprising discoveries of the soul drew the pair closer.</p><p>What eventually unfolded is a series of battles and trials across the desert wasteland full of divine intervention and unexpected kingdoms and femme fatales, with the goal to reach the Elysium that Achilles promised Patroclus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_I am made of memories._

Since the war between the gods, the world has never been the same. It was initiated by another furious, thundering quarrel between the rapacious Zeus and his prideful wife Hera whose ancient rage knows no bounds. The royal couple's uncontrollable violence speared the world with merciless lightning bolts and dramatic, damaging inconstant changes in the skies.

The rest of the Olympians selected sides: Earth-Shaker Poseidon, bloodthirsty Ares, savage Apollo, lustful Aphrodite and the self-indulgent Dionysus chose Zeus for his wildness in lovers and their joint passion for hedonism. On the other hand, logical Athena, independent Artemis, gentle Hestia, fair Demeter, Hermes, and Hephaestus - who are both so generous - chose Hera; the goddesses were enraged by misogynistic ideology, whilst Hermes was intimidated by Hera's temper and Hephaestus wasn't so fond of his father.

The original quarrel between godly husband and wife expanded unto all the Olympian gods, and competitions between each other fired away. Ares and Hephaestus again fought over Aphrodite, Artemis showed inherent anger at her twin brother's rape of one of her women, Athena and Ares challenged each other of which cities they shall conquer, on and on. Demeter's dark moods stopped the seasons from progressing, so the humidity in the mortal world kept increasing so that even Poseidon's seas have started to cease. The gods turned from the protectors into the tricksters.

So as the Earth rotted away beneath the scalding sun, the gods' wars and damages committed have wiped beauty and nature away akin to even more dangerous nuclear weaponry. It wasn't the first time that humans have been destroyed due to divine temperaments, but it was the generation where it brought most shame. Technology was advancing, the arts and the sciences were launching themselves into a deeper level of revolutionary progress, and for all that to be gone was a modern tragedy. The gods lessened themselves to lost angels whose wings have began to decay in what used to be golden cities. The world bristled as the grey sky sagged its shoulders; Apollo wasn't granting the sun at its finest anymore.

Since Patroclus was an infant, his whole world revolved around his father and the Opus clan. Patroclus, whose name was translated to ‘glory of the father’, wondered if such an expectation was even possible to achieve. Menoetius was born to be a leader, made of the hard earth and striking sunlight, expecting nothing less than veneration, whilst constantly mapping out his people's journey and the means of survival.

Patroclus was born seven years after the majority of the Earth turned into wasteland, when the clan was passing through Thebes. His mother died from childbirth; Philomela, the fierce woman warrior his father had fallen in love with, battled through torrent snow and lightning and volcanoes, but not his birth. Menoetius was merely twenty when he became king of Opus before the war; his reign had fallen from grace the fifth month in when Opus was destroyed by nuclear bombs.

Menoetius, however, was adamant on survival. As the clan started fighting and claiming territories with other clans across what was left of Greece, he began to notice Philomela, a former peasant girl from the village. Philomela planned the irrigation systems and constructed the spears from years of experience under the household of mechanics. She fished and hunted and became an expert at predicting the weather, and Menoetius adapted to requesting her help.

The clan survived the best they could; most of the elders, pregnant women, and infants gradually died the fastest. Menoetius favored the most resourceful warriors to be his main companions and set a list of rules that everyone must obey if they valued their lives - if not, it shall be either execution or exclusion. Nobody was known to have survived in the scorching heat of the wastelands on their own.

Sporadically, they would encounter another nearby clan and hear news from them. There were so many surviving clans out there, Patroclus knew. The Thessalian held the sharpest brunt of nuclear, but they were still hunting and fighting. The Spartans were brutal, ruthless, violent; they would thrive into the dessert with the pride of lions, ready to scourge any enemies to the sands, showing no mercy to the weak and dying. The Athenians were rich and influential, so their hospitality and artistic thinking would be spectacularly beneficial. News recently came that the Thebans and Cretans had became allies by joining forces by battling off the Mycenaeans.

Circumstance would be easier if all the clans could be allies with the intent of rebuilding civilization, Patroclus thought, instead of fighting each other in the wild like animals. His father, when he wasn’t occupied, would sometimes warm up to his son and tell him stories. How Castor and Pollux died in monuments of each other, their deaths commemorated in the constellations. Ariadne, stranded on the shore of Naxos, enchanted the god of ecstasy and revelry to make her his bride. Icarus, the reckless boy whose wax wings melted away when he flew too close to the sun. The monstrosity of Medusa’s vulgar beauty and how Perseus destroyed her. The romance between Eros and Psyche; how she wasn't allowed to see his face in their trysts and had to complete four trials to prove to Aphrodite she was worthy of her son.

The most startling news that arrived was the legacy of Prince Achilles of the Myrmidon clan. Born a few months after Patroclus, he had heard gossip about the new prince. Word was that he was supposed to be the divine son of Zeus, but the titan Prometheus delivered a prophecy that dictated the son shall be stronger than the father. Thus the forced marriage between Peleus, king of Phthia, and the nereid Thetis was arranged with an opulent feast for the gods. Achilles was known for being invulnerable everywhere except his heel, where Thetis held him when she dipped her son into the River Styx for that inhuman protection.

Achilles was famed to be a hero since his birth. They say his mother watches over him even though there was not enough sea for the sea goddess. They say he harbored divine strength and has battle skills that would put a seasoned soldier to shame. They say his rage was as swift as the clapping of thunder and has such golden looks akin to that of a tougher Adonis. Patroclus, the modest son with angles too sharp and whose soul stitched with a string of insecurities, was envious of this mythical boy built from Poseidon's sea and the blessing of Zeus.

Granted, it wasn't that he had the most arduous of lives. He was the son of a mightily revered king, and though deeply shy he was kind and nurturing. He wasn't so ugly, either - skin the color of polished sandalwood, almond eyes, unruly black hair, a short and bony physique, but he was quick on his feet. He was actually advanced in training - archery, fencing, wrestling, chariot-racing, spear-throwing, even if his small appearance suggested otherwise. It was the constant tug of invisibility, not fitting in, not belonging, that bothered Patroclus.

Except one place. He adored taking trips into the medicine hut to see the centaur Chiron, discussing biology and surgery and various herbs and plants for what kind of wounds and infections and where to find them. Chiron delivered babies and helped mothers’ fertility and has the eternal patience to tend after every wounded warrior in the clan. He knew Chiron enjoyed teaching him medicine; none of the other boys and girls were interested in nurture when they have their swords and spears. His father often frowned when Patroclus tried to engage in talk about biology and botany with him, flickering his bloodied hand in impatience.

Patroclus knew his father wanted a hero for a son.

* * *

 

It was not until his seventeenth birthday, that Patroclus felt like his life has finally began. The clan was building shelter of what used to be Thermopylae, a settlement blessed with much more greenery, and by that time he had blended into routine life. He still felt out of the picture, but he hadn't bothered dwelling on his personal sentiments too much. He couldn't afford such luxury. Besides, he was spending his youth on his passion: medicine, under the guidance of Chiron. No matter what Menoetius thought of it, he wasn't withdrawing.

With hesitation, he stopped before entering his father’s tent. Menoetius was crouched over a geographical map of their whereabouts, brows furrowed in thought. Patroclus had to clear his throat loudly to signify his presence. He saw his father's guarded eyes peer upwards, the precise brief second of softness, before the guard retreated despite his smile. “Good morning, son. What do you need?”

Patroclus shifted on his feet, his heart temporarily seized in dismay. “Uh, well...I know you're very busy, but it's my birthday today. I've turned seventeen.” He lamely added the last part, just in case his father forgot.

Menoetius had the grace to rearrange his features into pleasant surprise. “Yes, yes. I remember Philomela’s death,” an awkward pause - he cleared his throat, “your birthday. You both are Capricorns, don't you know?”

“Well, no,” Patroclus said gently. “You barely tell me anything about my mother. I wish you would,” he added. “I hear more from the elders than I hear from you. She sounds like a brilliant woman.”

“Seeing as you seem to know from them already, I'm sure my insight isn't the most valuable resource. She was a brilliant woman, yes, and she would celebrate your birthday if she were here and give you all the doting attention that I could not give.” He withdrew back to reading the map, fingers tapping idly against the waterskin of fresh wine.

“But I'm your son,” Patroclus couldn't resist saying, “I'm sorry if I've embittered myself to you by taking Mother’s life away, I understand how you blame me. I just often wish we could have a happier relationship.”

“This has naught to do with Philomela,” his father rubbed his tired eyes, and Patroclus couldn't tell if it was a lie. “I’m fully occupied running Opus. Besides, you're in your seventeenth year now, almost adult age. Have you considered taking a lover? There are many young women your age - we need to keep reproducing.”

“The youth don't always have to pick conquests of the opposite sex merely to mate, that's a bit too early, don't you think?” Patroclus jumped at the sound of the sly, amused voice of Canthus, one of his father's companions, who had entered the tent with scrolls in his hands. Canthus nursed the reputation of being very promiscuous with men and women, but his assets lies in his cunning thinking and mathematical plotting.

Patroclus didn't like him much, especially since he hit his puberty and began to detect the older man's ardent gazes on him. Not that he wasn't interested in males - he wasn't sure of his interests, really - but not with Canthus, never with him. He wondered if the man had been shamelessly eavesdropping.

“What are you suggesting?” Menoetius trained his steely eyes on him. “Patroclus, as my rightful son, has duty seated on his shoulders.”

“Look at him, Menoetius! Those long pretty lashes, coy smiles, flushed cheeks, olive complexion, and a fine figure. He ought to experience first, find out the pleasures of the flesh.”

“Out here, there is no pleasure anymore. I will not let my heir sell his body around like a low whore from a roadside brothel. Any man or woman who thinks they can take advantage of Patroclus will not enjoy my anger, including you. Is that clear?” Patroclus gaped; it was one of those rare times he witnessed the strength of his father's protectiveness over him.

“Well understood,” Canthus obediently bowed his head.

He bid goodbye to his father and hastily left, keeping his eyes on the ground. He briefly mourned that it wasn't a dashing young prince or a delectable maiden who complimented on his beauty, but instead a predatory middle-aged man. It was a petty disappointment, but he couldn't help it. He wasn't flattered either, for Canthus had an artificial tongue of honey anyways.

“Pat, watch your step!” he winced when he hit against the toned chest of Automedon, a skilled boy in training and one of Patroclus’ good friends. From his excessive sweating and worn-down breaths, Patroclus correctly predicted he just got back from the training fields and was on his way to the fountains. He dropped his purpose as the two friends cheerily ambled to the medicine den together.

“The goat man went fucking hard on us today,” Automedon grumbled, referring to Phineas the drill master, a gruff and rough-handed man who shouts more than he speaks, his fierce sternness and determination a significant asset. Patroclus remembered nearly wetting his pants when Phineas yelled at him for not holding his bow and arrow in the right position.

“Twenty chariot races, twenty sprinting races, thirty archery rounds, wrestling matches for all...” Automedon panted, wiping a sweat from his brow. Patroclus eyed his friend - he was a handsome boy by most means, with a dazzling grin, a fresh youthful face licked by shining sunlight, a proper Greek nose, brown hair an awful mess but it was a mess that suits in the irregular, charmingly clumsy context of Automedon.

He handed him a waterskin of warm water when they went into the den. The place featured a vast selection of surgical equipments upon the walls and a multitude of herb baskets (such as rosemary, ginger, cinnamon, curry) neatly categorized on the miniature table, which was carved from wood; Chiron had an expertise in carpentry like he has with most things. He taught Patroclus about shaping and sanding, among cooking and surviving: collecting whatever berries there are, setting quail snares, how to clean wounds, capturing birds, churning goat's milk for yogurt and cheese.

There was a line of pallets made from wood, hay and silk for patients. Currently there weren't that many patients, but Patroclus knew what to expect when the mantle of winter sets in - lots of illnesses and starvation. Chiron wasn't in the den, probably out hunting for prey or herbs and seeds.

“Who did you wrestle against?” Patroclus hummed as he cleaned the table from leftover juices.

“Clysonymus,” he heard the triumph in Automedon's voice. “Dear Apollo, do I hate that whiny Titan. I beat him to the bloody ground, though. Like he deserved.”

“Nobody really deserves violence,” Patroclus pondered. “No matter how much of a bigoted, annoying, arrogant Titan they could be.”

He sensed rather than see the roll of his friend's eyes. “Can your heart be any softer? Violence is synonymous to our lives out here in this burnt world. That's why we have physical training. There are always going to be people who deserve it and you need to emphasize your strength if you want to fight for a worthwhile title rather than being the wimp.”

Patroclus shrugged, slightly dismayed by the aggression of his friend. “I believe everyone has good in them. Violence perpetuates injustice.”

“And glory,” Automedon patted his back, such a courageous tone outlining the roots of his main ambition. “Swift-footed Achilles would cackle at your words.”

“As if I care about what a glorified, pampered prince I've never met thinks of my opinions; he must think the world revolves around his.”

“But he sounds so epic, I would love to meet him,” Automedon said. Of course he would - Automedon, who daydreamed about golden kings and glorious heroes on the crust of adventure, who couldn't get enough of the tales of Heracles. “But you know what, my precocious, sensitive, healer-in-practice comrade is so much better.”

“I agree,” the two started at the serene voice of Briseis, another pupil of Chiron’s. Being the only two students of the sagacious centaur, Patroclus guessed friendship was already a natural requirement when the pair started learning together, both joined with a shared passion for healing and medicine. Briseis was the daughter of Anatolian farmers when the clan invaded through Anatolia and captured an increasing amount of prisoners to serve under their rule. Briseis happened to be one of the captives.

The former Anatolians were forced to be loyal to Opus, and Briseis, being a wily learner that she was, learned Greek quickly from the guidance of Chiron and assigned herself as a pupil. Otherwise she'd end up living in a tiny shared tent with some other women in cramped space and in constant fear of rape from lusty men out in the clearing.

That's one of the few beneficial elements of Menoetius' rules: men weren't allowed to rape a woman, out of fear of unnecessary death from childbirth and to prevent jealous quarrels within the clan. However, that doesn't completely quench the flicker of trepidation. Patroclus was aware of how women were lowly treated, disrespected, objectified, abused, and ignored in the clans, seen as things before they were seen as people. Sure, girls were allowed to train and hunt as well, doesn't mean that their achievements weren't overlooked and underestimated. Sure, there was once a queen, but Patroclus was told the men often judged his mother by her gender before her opinions.

Breseis, for all her timidity, became impassioned in the rise of her interests. She had a voice that resembled a pretty gray sky, and eyes that reflected clear stone hit by a ray of sun. She wasn't classically beautiful, but she was strangely beautiful with her angular cheekbones, lower-set eyes, cloudy expressions, pale lips the color of petals in the early stages of blooming, and dark brown skin. Patroclus was fond of her, her consoling mannerisms and pensive patterns of speech.

“Hello, Patroclus,” she nodded, her smile so warm. “Happy birthday. I designed a wreath of marigolds for you, since I remember you telling me they're your favorites.” She fished from her basket the aforementioned gift, and chuckling, she placed the wreath upon his head.

Briseis, Anatolian captive, remembered his birthday and even bothered to give him a meaningful gift, while his own father couldn't care less. Patroclus hugged her.

“Aww, don't you look like a pretty princess, Patty.” Automedon cooed, squishing his friend's cheeks, who was wishing that name wouldn't stick to be a nickname. “Happy birthday, Nestor. God, you're so old.”

“Shut it, you!” He rolled his eyes. “Respect your elder. Now where's my gift?”

“It's in my tent, let me fetch it,” Automedon bounded away, after giving him the suggestive wiggling of eyebrows behind Briseis, leaving them alone together.

“How old are you anyways, Briseis?” he asked her.

“I'm sixteen,” she said shyly. “My birthday's not until next March. In my old household, Mother wakes us up at the first sight of dawn and everyone exchanges gifts, then we wait for a huge family breakfast of mulberry pancakes and honeyed porridge and bowls of apples. Yeah, those days were the happiest.”

Patroclus felt an insistent tug at his heart. Her family sounded so affectionate and loving, they don't deserve to get raided and killed when they sounded like noble people, giving their children all that love and care even Patroclus, as a prince, couldn't get. “I'm sorry for taking that away from you,” he squeezed her hand.

“Not your fault,” she whispered. But subtle anger settled on her visage, a mild but noticeable brew of storm. “You didn't order Opus soldiers to raid our village, you didn't invade into our property and steal our chickens, cows, horses and speared my little sister's body or beat my poor parents and older siblings to the point of death.” She suddenly closed her eyes. “I apologize. That must make you uncomfortable.”

“No need to apologize! You have every right to be angry, you're not human if you don't. Let me tell you, you're more compassionate and kind and truthful than all of those savages out there pretending they're saviors.”

“I know that,” a tired wry smile twisted her lips, “and I also know compassion and kindness and truth aren't what they look for in this place.”

Automedon returned, and upon seeing Patroclus's hand still settled on Briseis's, of course got the wrong - more romantic - assumption. “Should I come back at another time?” he smirked. He was hiding the gift behind his back.

Patroclus withdrew his hand. “No way. Give it to me right now, you brute.”

“Don't get too eager.” Automedon revealed a miniature badge, carved into the rough shape and outlines of an eagle taking wing. He scratched his neck. “I know it's lousy compared to your advanced handiwork, but I tried.”

“This is amazing,” he turned the badge around in his hands, admiring. “Why eagle though?”

Automedon shrugged. “It reminds me of you. Eager to take flight, strangely wise and all-seeing.”

“I hardly guessed your perception could be so intelligent,” Briseis commented, giving him a rare grin, managing to praise and insult. Automedon nearly shouted to the sky in triumph, both from the usually rue girl's grin and the sculptural achievement.

Automedon was a lion-hearted person; too easily impressionable and eager to marvel his superiors, with a tendency to be oblivious and insensitive through jabbing humor, but in his core there was a boy who strived to survive and guide others to do the same and Patroclus loved him.

“I love you both,” he told them in all sincerity. Briseis blushed, ducking her head. Automedon only ruffled his hair, about to crack some stupid joke when they were interrupted by Clysonymus, his large body so weary and battered as he drew ragged breaths.

“This is why you should exercise more often,” Automedon chortled.

“What's happening?” Patroclus urged. Clysonymus was actually scaring him now, the weight of his breaths and the frozen face in his eyes.

“I was in the hunting party this afternoon, right, things were going steady until we reached the border. There we encountered a party of wounded men, lying battered on the ground, blood splattered on the sand, and we had to check their armors to realize they're the Myrmidons. One of them was even Achilles! Only his heel was struck; that's the only place he was bleeding.”

The other three shared quizzical glances. “Are you fucking with us?” Automedon growled.

“I swear,” Clysonymus nodded frantically, “they're in the clearing, I came to warn Patroclus that he has quite a lot of nursing to do.”

“So what's going to happen? We can't nurse the enemy in our camp! The bloodthirsty Myrmidons will overrun and slaughter all of us once they're healed,” Patroclus, logically, pointed out.

Clysonymus's eyes practically bulged from their sockets. “This is an advantage, you bull-headed idiot. We have Achilles, Aristos Achaion, at our mercy. He would be so fucking grateful. Him and his Myrmidons will be our allies! I know you're too much of a pretty little pansy as to spend your whole life with the safety of medicine, but for the real men, we are warriors who know what's best. Right, Automedon?”

“This 'pretty little pansy' here is a pupil to the wisest, oldest centaur known and your life would be in his hands after you get your obnoxious ass kicked and howling for a remedy,” Automedon shoved him outside.

Patroclus caught a glimpse of Briseis's face: positively impressed. They ran outside; surely, there was an extreme sensation of activity, people pushing each other about, loud demands to see the famous beauty of Achilles. Patroclus was jostled and pushed around, soon losing hold of his friends, and not until hearing the command of his father: “Let Patroclus through!” that the crowds parted ways for him to stumble in between.

“Silence yourselves and listen!” Menoetius raised his voice, climbing onto the dais for his people to pay attention. “The hunting party came across a minor army this morning; Myrmidons soldiers lay bloodied and defeated at our borders. There are merely sixteen of them. I know a significant number of you would beg for them to be left to their limited, unlikely devices, but a lot of you that I rely my judgment upon also say that we heal Prince Achilles' army in the chances of allies, and in fear of angering the gods of Olympus for leaving one of their favourites to die in agony. Whether they were plotting an attack prior, they are now at the mercy of us. My companions, meet me in my tent to discuss this matter furthermore.”

The people heard but the focus wasn't upon his form - it was all on Achilles, or the man who was seemingly Achilles. People had began carting the other soldiers into the medicine den, leaving the prince out in the open. He had a terrible, savage beauty, was the first thing that Patroclus noticed. He was beautiful even with a dirtied face, no doubt, but his beauty held hands with vulgarity, his visage carved for a voracious grin, cold cheekbones, and domineering arched brows. He was still conscious, though it's very apparent his heel burns like the flames of Tartarus, the blood temporarily stopped by bandages but it won't hold on long enough.

“Patroclus, help me carry him,” Chiron grunted. Being inhumanly strong, Chiron heaved most of Achilles' weight whilst Patroclus secures him, staring at his face and the elegant yet muscular slope of his shoulders. Achilles opened his half-cracked eyes when they entered, and attempted struggling against Chiron, but the centaur's power combined with his weakness was too much. Achilles glared, icy green eyes pierced like daggers, and spat on Patroclus' face when he was lowered onto a pallet.

He wiped his face in indignation, seriously pondering on spitting back, before acknowledging it would be a childish action. “I need you to help me nurse all sixteen of these men back to health, by your father's orders and my agreement. Yes, they are our enemies and they are Myrmidons, but right now they are defenseless and at risk of death. We are not monsters, so we must help.”

“Achilles would be the easiest to heal than the others, and after he regained his strength, he will be beyond angry that we kept them as prisoners,” Patroclus pointed out. “They will burn and corrupt and steal all our resources and shelters and food, Chiron. They are barbarians.”

“Dear boy, we are all barbarians! We live in the wild, we hunt animals in the wild, we murder and raid clans and settlements when we come into contact. All for survival. But barbarians such as we must put our skills to use, because violence and oppression aren't the neutral states of human nature. Now, tend after those at the corner, and I'll manage the rest.”

And so Patroclus set himself to his duty, guilt creeping in his stomach. He washed his hands in the bucket of water, scrubbing them afterwards with sage and lavender that Chiron had taught him about killing invisible sources for infection before surgery. He went through the elaborate tasks that he had learnt; used yarrow to prevent bleeding, cleaned the wounds, explored the area for underlying structures that may have been damaged prior to enclosing the wounds with sutures. But the wounds will be cleaned, dressed, and allowed to heal gradually over time without those.

They were all youthful men, a few years older than Patroclus himself, bruises scattering all over their damaged skin. Maybe they fought against Spartans or Mycenaeans for all that surging strength to be reduced to this. Briseis came in to nurse as well - she was already an expert, so generous and gentle with an eye for intricate detail. For the remainder of the day, Patroclus cleaned and cut and washed and tended to unconscious soldiers, eyes keep tracing back now and then to Achilles' unconscious body and Chiron's busy presence by his pallet.

With only the heel to be hurt, the impact must've been worlds more painful than the ordinary feet wounds. He was sleeping soundlessly, eyes completely dragged over, his golden mane mussed in variously twisted directions. A messenger boy scurried into the medicine den to whisper something to Chiron.

Chiron met his eyes and beckoned for Patroclus. “I am summoned to Menoetius' meeting. Guard the prince while I'm gone.”

Briseis says, after Chiron left, “I can hardly believe this just happened. Who attacked them, do you think?”

“A nearby clan, probably. Or a monstrous animal. But they must be a damned powerful force,” he gestured to Achilles' heel, “for even him to be wounded.”

“Stubborn one,” Briseis shook her head. “He attempted to lash out at Chiron three times already, but then always succumbed to sleep.”

Patroclus focused on the deep cut. Stitching wasn't yet an option, for the edges of the wound were ragged and far apart. He dabbed a clean rag in the solution of sage and lavender, wadded them and packed them into the bloody gaping hole. Fat droplets of blood welled like crimson petals, spreading in the manner of spilled ink. Briseis rushed to help.

“We need something to secure the bandages,” he told her. His eyes landed on the belt that Achilles was wearing, and he had an idea. They struggled as they undid his belt, a gorgeous golden strap with the grand Myrmidon design of a noble roaring lion. Patroclus ripped the sheepskin hook at the back of the belt, strained it far enough to conceal the injury, and completed the strap through the buckle. Achilles growled, struggling between visions of unconsciousness and reality.

Patroclus froze when at one point Achilles stirred and managed to draw his eyes open. He had wonderful eyes, flaming stars; pure, striking green with flecks of honey-gold in resemblance to the morning sun. They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Achilles croaked, looking at Patroclus' face, “I'm too fucking young to be in heaven.” Then he nodded off again.

Briseis blinked. “Well, unless I'm mistaken, I think he just thought you were an angel,” she observed.

“Am I supposed to be flattered?”

Briseis mockingly rolled her eyes. “All the girls would be so jealous, don't you know.”

“Yeah, yeah. Now I'm starting to get hungry,” Patroclus groaned, “we should go to the feast and tell Chiron that he woke up for a bit.”

“And that he thought you were a fine creature of the Heavens,” Patroclus playfully swatted at her arm for the exaggeration.

The earth was passionately and languidly kissed by dusk, darkness settling over the valley, the skies dimming from afire rays to the liquid haze of stars over the horizon, so dark it felt like the edge of the world. Automedon was firstly heard then found around one of the many campfires with his friends, grilling rabbit flesh and conversing in blaring tones.

He evidently quietened himself when he saw Briseis approaching, making room for her and Patroclus. “How does it feel like to be in such close proximity to Aristos Achaion?” he prodded eagerly, his face must be alit with such childish zest Patroclus wished he had more artful things to say, other than him being occupied and confused most of the time.

“He was knocked unconscious for the of the time,” revealed Patroclus. Briseis softly giggled next to him. “And I was too busy tending to others.”

“Come now,” urged Automedon. “What does he look like up close?”

Patroclus pretended to give it a thought, though looks so prepossessing lit in his memory. “Handsome. Detached, obviously. Golden lion mane and sharp green eyes with dots of brazen gold, if that's what you're so curious about. Uh, he has a lot of muscles?”

“Dear. Lord. Zeus,” Melas, an acquaintance of his, exclaimed. “The great Achilles, Aristos Achaion, leader of the Myrmidons, has...muscles? Well, let the shock glow on me!”

“You said he was sleeping only most of the time, did he try to fight you or something when he was conscious?” Automedon questioned.

Briseis decided to speak up, and does Patroclus hate her at extremely rare times like these. “He just woke up for a few seconds, stared at Patroclus, and wondered if he was in heaven.”

A collective round of hoots and whistles sounded, and Patroclus knew Automedon would be seen wriggling his brows right now if it weren't so dark. He and Briseis took the offered rabbit legs and crunched into them. After arduous hours, it felt stimulating to eat something, even badly grilled rabbit.

 

Patroclus struggled to fall asleep for reasons unknown, twisting and turning in his pallet all through the night plastered with sweaty agitation. He shared a spacey tent with Chiron and Briseis; Chiron slumbered easily through the turnings of his body, like he always does, but Briseis occasionally woke up in the night to notice Patroclus' insomnia and he could see her sympathetic smile through the grim silver. He was beginning to regret not eating the poppies that he gave the soldiers, ingredients to lull them further into the depths of sleep.

But when he finally did, it was to the thought of terrifying green-gold eyes and cutting, cruel beauty, the equivalent to hungry waves chopping against the shoreline. He thought of the sea.

 

Achilles looked innocent bathing in the light of Eos. The bandage was still on - Patroclus would have to change it regularly from now on. He decided to check on the other men, glad that Chiron returned last night to apply new ointments that Patroclus hadn't. “You two accomplished an exceptional job,” Chiron acknowledged that morning, preparing his bow and arrows for hunting. Patroclus and Briseis took handfuls of figs on the table and devoured on its juices.

They swiveled their heads when a few pained groans and mutters were heard. The men were starting to awake now, the world emerging from the grey into its proper colors. Achilles, too, was also awakening. As if on queue, Menoetius entered into the den with brisk strides and a composed stoic expression. By now the soldiers were collectively conscious of their surroundings, some looking appreciative, some looking hostile, but all with an equal measurement of bafflement.

“Greetings, Prince Achilles and Myrmidons, I am King Menoetius of Opus and my clan is currently residing in Thermopylae. Our hunting patrol encountered your army at our border and we took you in for much needed treatment. Pay your thanks to not me in that aspect, but to Chiron and the apprentices,” he nodded to Chiron and his pupils. The men stared, amazed, at the famous centaur who was famed to have been tutor to many Greek heroes. Even Achilles looked shocked.

“Now, I subject your agreement to be mutual in which you will rest here until you are all healthy,” the king continued.

“Wait,” Achilles commanded, holding up his hand for him to pause. Patroclus detected a very slight quiver of irritation on his father's impassive face. He certainly didn't like being ordered from a youth, one who was obviously carrying divine blood too. “You did not ask for my standpoint, this will not do. I have a purpose to fulfill, and the faster I get it done, the better off I'll be. My army will leave no later than this evening.”

“Have mercy, Achilles! Most of my arm has been beaten to a bloody pulp!” One of the soldiers cried, and in his condition he didn't care about defying his leader. A lot more men offered blunt protests as well, until it was fourteen against Achilles with one other reluctant to take any side, and the other a brawny man who got the least injuries, not including the prince.

“It seems as if most of your army agrees, Prince. It will be beyond stifling for you to thrive in the heat with no horses nor strong armor and weaponry. You risk reopening your wounds and bleeding again, and in the plausible risk of an attack, you shall be overpowered and maybe even destroyed. Your heel is not swift enough now.”

Achilles' eyes narrowed to skeptical slits. “I have never met a king who hasn't got an ulterior motive. Spit it out, old man. You will scarcely do this if it were a normal army, but my fame and power strikes you as a remarkable boost of your own influence and ego, as always expected. The Myrmidons aren't fools, let me tell you that.”

“I won't lie, of course you are a remarkable asset. A war hero on the rise, they say. We won't risk angering the gods by leaving your army to suffer, because of you being one of the Olympians' favorites. Your men will reside here for as long as it takes them all to heal,” relieved nodding broke out amid the ranks, “though on some requirements. You have to answer my questions truthfully.”

The prince jutted his chin out. “Depends on the questions.”

“Who had attacked your army?”

“The Mycenaean army. I noticed Agamemnon's colors. His clan was always at odds with ours, and hearing that I've led my own army, traveled west and decided to attack with his much more larger one.”

“And why did you separate from the rest of your clan?”

A smirk tilted Achilles' lips. “Why? Because I want to. I wanted to prove that I will be a glorious king. I am born to be a leader, not a follower; I harbor no patience to wait for my father to give up his throne in order for me to be King. He permitted, even encouraged, me to lead my own army to further the settlements of Phthia and later the rest will join us.” He glared, moodily, at his bandaged foot. “But thank you, for the hospitality. The person who secured my bandage with my own Myrmidon belt is very creative.”

“That would be Prince Patroclus,” Chiron announced. Patroclus blushed under the eyes of the men, particularly their leader. “He is a very resourceful and nurturing boy. This is Briseis, she's a natural healer and also remedied a number of you.”

“Prince Patroclus is my son,” Menoetius announced, no pride in his voice. Only saying a simple fact.

Achilles focused on Patroclus. Then his mouth formed into a cheeky lopsided grin Patroclus was sure he'd be used to for the next few weeks. “Well, I would never have guessed. His unfortunate size does render him quite useless in the field of warriors.”

Patroclus gritted his teeth, squeezing his knuckles in the urge not to punch the bleating male Harpy. “Your unfortunate bigotry renders you quite useless in the field of healers,” Patroclus threw back. Usually, his temperament was impressively calm, but this would not be the thanks he received and for the sake of Asclepius, if he hears yet another man condescend his passion, he shall explode.

He could feel his father's glare, but when he glanced back, Menoetius didn't seem angry. In fact, almost quite pleased for some reason.

“We must discuss the rules while you stay with us. We will care after you like proper guests - provide food and drinks, heal your injuries, give our horses when you are ready to go, feel free to join the feasts and practice your training when you feel healthy enough. Although, do not think you won't be closely watched: if you disobey our rules, then we won't treat you with any more justice than we would any Opus citizen.”

In his hand there was a long scroll, and he listed the rules (Do not eat for yourself before dinner, do not kill your fellow citizen, do not rape an unmarried woman, do not spread the clan's plans to another member of a different clan, do not demolish a place in the camp, etc.). “If there is any suspicion that you are plotting against us, we will drive you from our land.”

Achilles raised an eyebrow. “And what about your people? How shall I trust that our drinks won't be poisoned, or that they aren't plotting our deaths when we are at our most helpless?”

“Then wouldn't they be disobeying our very rules? We are fair people,” Briseis quietly scoffed beneath her breath, so only Patroclus heard her. “I will have my servants supply your meals soon for you all.”

He bowed with imperial importance and left. Some of the Myrmidons closed their eyes, giving in to their fatigue. Achilles threw a glance filled with vague derision at Patroclus, who stared back defiantly. He expected another scorning comment, but Achilles actually asked, “Can I have some figs?”

Patroclus, with reluctance, handed him a few. Like a kid entertaining himself, Achilles easily juggled the fruits and popped them in his mouth when they fell down like dollops of butter. He saw Briseis and Chiron tending to the rest, rinsing the injuries and replacing bandages and the like. He returned his attention to Achilles.

“That wasn't nice,” he found himself saying.

“Excuse me?” Achilles looked confused, which irritated him even more. Oblivion mixed with rudeness wasn't tolerable.

“What you said to me, ridiculing my passion and ‘unfortunate’ physique as if I don't have feelings. That wasn't nice. Extremely rude, if you ask me. Considering that I was the one who fixed your heel up for the most part.”

Achilles blinked his incredulity away. “Damn, you're so innocent it's refreshing to see. Alright, thank you for fixing my heel up. I owe you one,” his gaze absorbed Patroclus’ figure up and down, the latter crossing his arms in instinct. “Not cut up to be a warrior, but that doesn't mean you're not contagious to look at.”

He felt a blush playing on his cheeks. “Uh, alright then,” if only Achilles could see him in drill sessions, he would get the surprise of his stupidly privileged life. He was more of a scholar and healer than a warrior and soldier, nevertheless it doesn't justify the prince insulting him. “Now, let me check,” he unlocked the belt and gently lifted the bandage up, Achilles' muffled groan strums a minor string of pity in his heart.

The skin was still blisteringly red, burning beneath Patroclus' soothing fingers. “I have to change the bandage everyday and apply ointments about three times a day after washing it with soap and water.”

He set to his task, soaping the foot with a new tentativeness. It was an elegant foot, Patroclus mused, looking as if it was crafted to be petal-veined and slight by Hephaestus' own expertise in order for the grace and swiftness on his feet. This one was severed, but the other, after being washed, was rosy and in clear evidence of youth, Patroclus could see all the energy inside prepared to set Achilles in motion.

“Please heal me as fast as you can,” the pensiveness of Achilles' voice lured back Patroclus' reverie. “I'm usually more cunning than this, I will lead my troops again to our Elysium,” the facade of an avenging archangel took place; never before have dazzling golden-blond hair and ruthless narrowed eyes complemented a person's beauty so well. Achilles looked like he had jewels glittering in his teeth. “I am Aristos Acahaion, my life is my reputation, I will have my glory...” he was mostly muttering to himself, probably falling asleep in the process.

Patroclus had to smile. Kids, everywhere. “So where is this Elysium you speak of?”

“Not enough of an infatuated fool to let private plans out to you,” Achilles' mouth twitched. “But don't you ever desire to be a conquerer instead, your name written in history for rediscovering nations ruled under your leadership, burning hearts to the ground and influencing cults upon your funeral pyre?”

“Short answer: no. A life like that isn't the one for me, despite how legendary it sounds in theory. I'm no Alexander. I'm happy when I save others with minor and major injuries, and by being their trusted lifeline. I don't need to lead an army into war to feel satisfaction. Even this is enough.”

Achilles only smirked, and for some inexplicable reason, Patroclus's fingers itched.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all his life, he had an unchangeable, permanent idea of what the ideal romance would be: full of commitment and devotion, half of each other’s souls, seeing the world through their eyes, the swirling palette of worldly colors and breaking love in pieces to keep them in every part of him - this and this and this. That Achilles holds disregard for such an idea doesn’t really surprise him, but to believe that infidelity was the right way boggles his mind.
> 
> “I see that I’ve stunned you speechless,” Achilles winked, “so what about you? Any lovers so I can bite my thumb off in jealousy for?”

“I’m telling you now, he has such insolent manners!” Patroclus hissed, pressuring force onto the hold of his tunic, squeezing further droplets of water out. He and Automedon were washing their clothes by a spring fountain, the dewy morning reflecting sleepiness upon the two teenage boys, yet Patroclus’ temper ran uncharacteristically rampant. 

“Yesterday was a horrible day for him, he probably harbored no tolerability and didn’t really mean anything by his words,” Automedon hummed, blinking the remnants of the sun away, being weirdly reasonable for his standards. Patroclus gave him a look of incredulity; he expected Automedon to be infuriated and protective, of all people!

“I would be grateful if I were in his shoes, but oh no, his royal highness mocks us physicians with no respect or humility whatsoever. Ugh, and today I have to tend to his heel again while he makes embarrassing comments and gives me the eyes that suggest I’m meat.”

Automedon snorted, throwing his head back in amusement. “By the gods, Patroclus, for someone so perceptive you can be so oblivious.”

His friend looked at him pointedly. “What do you mean?”

A foxy grin appeared on Automedon’s face. “Oh, whatever. Let’s just wait and see. But seriously though, nurse him as fast as you can because I want to meet the man himself.”

“Trust me, the thrill should wear off superbly quick.”

“What kind of thrill should wear off superbly quick?” Another boy joined them - Clonius, who was more of Automedon’s friend than Patroclus’, being another warrior in training, so the other two spent a lot of time together battling it out in fields and deserts. Patroclus liked him well enough, for he was constantly smiling and was courteous to Patroclus, and despite his obvious dashing looks, he was utterly modest. 

“Patroclus complains of Prince Achilles,” Automedon recapped the gist of Achilles’ attitude, paired with high tones of dramatic exaggeration. “I say any man who holds power to turn Patty into a temperamental terror holds my awe.”

“That’s terrible,” Clonius says, dipping his clothes into the pond beside Patroclus. “I can’t imagine how privileged that man must be, to insult you so. From all the work you’ve accomplished, someone as sweet as you deserves appreciation.”

“Oh, um, thanks,” Patroclus reddened when he stuttered, “that’s so kind of you to say. Why couldn’t he have your manners? It surely would make the prospect of tending to him easier to bear.”

“Some people just take the blessings they have for granted,” Clonius informed him with a reassuring smile. “I still remember when you healed the massive injury made by Clysonymus’ knife on my side.”

He nudged Clonius. “I bet you can take him down now! We were only eleven years old back then, really, it was more of Chiron’s work than mine. I just assisted him.”

“Ridiculous, Patty,” Automedon rolled his eyes, “stop denying credit, you fool. Clonius might even be having his life at risk by a similar cause in the near future, who knows. Even if he has such bulging muscles now mine quiver with envy every time we wrestle together.” 

“The weather is so oppressive this morning,” Clonius grunted, rolling his tunic down to his well-formed waist. Indeed, there were bulging muscles, evidently flexing beneath his tan skin as he did the washing. Little drops of liquid stuck to the wide set of his shoulders, the nape of his neck, on his fanned lashes. He had a face that blended between sharpness and geniality, such Asiatic facial features, his body already well-formed and almost overwhelmingly sturdy. Patroclus felt like a mouse next to him.

“Yeah, I see what you mean,” Patroclus teased. Clonius scratched the back of his neck, chuckling with uncharacteristic awkwardness, peering down at him through his lashes. 

 

“Ah, I was wondering where you were,” Achilles drawled when Patroclus emerged into the medicine den. “I’m so hungry, this is beyond unbearable,” he added as Patroclus prepared the bucket of fresh water and soap. “Where do you people eat? Out in the clearing?”

“Yes, but you’re not in the right shape to walk out there right now, so most likely a servant would serve your breakfast here soon,” Patroclus said. “Don’t argue with me on this.”

Achilles put his hands up in a mock defensive stance. “Never said anything of the sort. You know the best, doctor.” His gaze lingered on Patroclus as he gently undid the belt around his bandage and soaked the injury into warm liquid, the other boy’s caring hands wrapped around the sole of his foot.

“Actually, there’s a slight chance you could walk a bit this evening if this goes well,” says Patroclus, trying to retain his apathetic expression, betrayed when a wicked little grin slipped onto his face. “So you better behave yourself, because your well-being relies upon my patience now.”

“Couldn’t this lovely face be enough for you?” Achilles fluttered his eyes, wriggling his other set of toes into the bucket so that some of the water splashed on Patroclus’ nose.

“What’s the use of a lovely face without a lovely heart?” Patroclus removed his other foot from the bucket. “I’m serious. Now listen, this mattress that you’re lying on is comprised of the dried flowers from bedstraw, which repels fleas and vermin. We have to change it daily. So the sooner you are able to get up and I can change it, the better. Thank Apollo you’re only to get injured in one spot, in comparison to your soldiers.”

“How is Antilochus?” Achilles suddenly asked.

Patroclus frowned. “Uh, which one is Antilochus? I don’t know any of your men’s names.”

Achilles pointed to the man dozing at the opposite wall by the corner, the one with the worst ankles, but otherwise probably the most talented fighter out of all of them (not including Achilles); he had lesser scars otherwise. A handsome, freckly redhead with the mildest stage of a beard, lean and lanky, his feet nearly poking over the mattress as he slept like a dead man in his grave.

“His ankles badly needed caring after, but for sure he’ll survive.” Achilles visibly relaxed, and Patroclus felt a smile tug at his lips. “Is he your advisor? Companion?”

“Both,” says Achilles, “the man’s my closest comrade, and trust me, are we intimate,” a Cheshire cat smile seeped from his bow-shaped mouth. Patroclus got the implication.

“So are the pair of you lovers?” 

“I wouldn’t label it as such - we’re friends who indulge in Aphrodisiac impulses together when we desire another warm body, that’s it. I value his friendship and advice more than his mouth wrapped around my -” he noticed the red warmth on Patroclus’ cheeks, and smirked - “well, you know what I mean. Besides, he has a mistress back home.”

“A mistress?” Patroclus widened his eyes. “He has a mistress and yet he deceives her to mess around with you?”

“No deceit, doctor. She doesn’t really care; that's why she's a mistress rather than a wife. Fidelity between lovers is overlooked back in Phthia, you understand.” 

Patroclus really didn’t. For all his life, he had an unchangeable, permanent idea of what the ideal romance would be: full of commitment and devotion, half of each other’s souls, seeing the world through their eyes, the swirling palette of worldly colors and breaking love in pieces to keep them in every part of him - this and this and this. That Achilles holds disregard for such an idea doesn’t really surprise him, but to believe that infidelity was the right way boggles his mind.

“I see that I’ve stunned you speechless,” Achilles winked, “so what about you? Any lovers I can bite my thumb off in jealousy for?”

“None,” Patroclus said. “But I’m sure you'll bite your thumb at me in another way.”

“What about that other nurse? She’s a fine-looking belle.”

“She has a name - Briseis. She’s too much of a friend to be my lover. And don’t think about seducing her, she can see through lies.”

“You know, more often than not the line between friends and lovers blur together. You find it hard to tell them apart.” 

They heard someone entering the den. Peering behind his shoulder, Patroclus saw a line of servants serving the soldiers’ breakfast of chicken, rabbit leg, fruits, porridge, and water. “There’s your food now, your highness,” Patroclus sing-songed, smirking when Achilles made a grimaced face at the rabbit leg. But he dug in anyway. 

“Eat it up. I’ll see you later.”

“Wait, where are you going?”

“I have other priorities to see to, you know.”

“I thought your role was just healing and looking pretty?”

Patroclus rolled his eyes. “Think you’re so smooth? All day I’m occupied by curing children’s and adults’ injuries and helping out the servants and touring the land with Chiron for potential resources.”

“All the more reason to be a warrior,” Achilles playfully bit his thumb before Patroclus closed the door. He couldn't resist biting his own in return. 

 

The activity of the camp had increased since yesterday: people were bustling around everywhere, all seemed fueled with a purpose to get to somewhere. Despite his title as prince, Patroclus was used to being overlooked, so he and Briseis attempted to dodge the crowd. They were carrying two huge buckets each to draw water in, so it was best anyway. 

He ambled past the training fields, Briseis keeping pace - it looked as if the boys and girls were practicing different techniques of fighting, and currently they were experimenting with the Spartan style. Thank goodness he wasn't training with; the Spartans were, obviously, significant for brutality and rapacious appetite for war. Especially when he saw Automedon and Clonius warming up with sword work, looking particularly ambitious and focused in their element, his relief flourished.

“Clonius is charming,” Briseis murmured. Patroclus looked at her with surprise; she never expressed an interest in men, but with Clonius, he guessed it’s easy. He was undoubtedly charming. “And exceedingly modest and sensible, a seldom quality to be found in men.” She nudged at him. “I mean, besides from you. You two are so alike.”

“So you fancy Clonius now?” Patroclus whistled. “Probably the safest choice, huh.”

Briseis grimaced. “I honestly would but he’s not interested.”

“I could introduce you two,” he offers. 

“No, I meant not interested as in not interested in women, genius.”

Her friend nearly choked on laughter. “Where in this world did you even get the idea? That’s highly unlikely, the girls all swoon over him. He had never been with another boy, and the way others talk about him, he’s appraised as an ideal of male strength and nobility among our peers.”

“Automedon was right. You can be so hopelessly clueless,” she rolled her eyes. “You need to notice body language and subtext, that’s all. And besides, which law dictates men who lie with other men can’t be ideals of male strength and nobility? That was the most basic ideology of homosexuality back in Ancient Greece - even if I do have issues with connotations of toxic masculinity. Anyways, I’m pretty sure Harmodius, Hadrian, Alexander, Zeus, and Apollo had desired Aristogeiton, Antinous, Hephaestion, Ganymede, and Hyacinthus, and those men are still famous for power.”

Patroclus shrugged, chuckling at the idea of gay Clonius in Ancient Greece training an eager Eromenos. “Fair enough. But do tell, what are some occasions that gave you such a sure idea?”

Briseis smiled. “Not my place to tell. But really, you should’ve known by now.”

A group of other kids were yelled at by Phineas to run the track field to awaken themselves from fatigue and toughen their limbs, groaning beneath the persisting Greek sun. 

Clonius caught Patroclus' eye and grinned at him, suddenly stopped warming up with that complicated sword motion he was practicing, and raised a competitive brow at Automedon. “You ready?”

“Prepare to get destroyed, baby!” Automedon swung his sword, trying to land a throw which Clonius parried. The two boys were instantly caught in a fast to-and-fro duo of combat, the sharp clanging of wooden swords radiating as Patroclus chewed on his lip, scared for their safety but also quite riveted. 

Automedon was confident with weapons, but it was a confidence stemmed from fear of inadequacy in other fields, his movements excited, aggressive, quick-thinking, set in motion by fire ready to blaze, adding to his stubborn strength. Clonius possessed the level of self-assurance rare in people their age, his mind always assessing and plotting, breaking down attack moves into bullet points of advantages and disadvantages per second with constant backups. 

Both were engrossed in the heavy, sweaty hacking art, a flurry of parries and blows, moving around the field as if in a masculine dance. Still, it was a dual between friends, considerably more experimental and careful. Patroclus thought he should get on with his task, but something held his feet to that spot, watching the pair. 

Clonius had increased his speed and force, Patroclus realized. Usually he was a testing and evaluating kind of fighter, sometimes surrendering to others in kind purpose, but now under Patroclus' attention he stepped up his game. 

Briseis caught Automedon’s eye and she smiled. He kept darting looks at her as he struck and counterattacked, and his accuracy wavered. Eventually, Automedon's sword was clattered to the dust, discarded by Clonius in a countermove. Whoops and cheers arose, abruptly silenced when Phineas told them to shut the fuck up and get back to work. He did give Clonius a congratulatory pat on the back though, so that meant something.

Clonius picked up Automedon's sword for him, and knowing the extent of his friend's obstinate competitiveness, Patroclus silently sympathized with Clonius for the inevitability of Automedon's next challenge. He and Briseis went on their way.  

   
The sulphur springs from which Thermopylae derived its name were the number one caution around those parts, unless you want to suffer burning agony and possibly face an unexpected entrance into the Underworld if you dove into its depths. Patroclus had learned to distinguish safe springs from sulphuric ones, but that doesn't mean he had never spent his time healing angry patches of skin on mischievous children. 

“I think he can hobble around today,” Patroclus said. 

“Ah, his royal highness,” Briseis nodded, “I can imagine him taking the training fields by storm, so we have a few hours of peace left.”

“He’s arrogant,” he finds himself saying as they filled the buckets with water, “just because he’s a demigod he thinks he’s so much more worthier than us peasants. He lies with a man who has a mistress, and what do you know, maybe he has a harem of men and women he ordered for his entertainment.”

Briseis eyed him, his flushed face and clenched fists. “How do you know he lies with men?”

“He said so. He’s with Antilochus, the redhead with the bad ankles.”

“Not surprised. He's extremely good-looking, even when in pain.” She seemed to be thinking. “So he’s attracted to men. What, did he attempt to flirt with you? I mean, you’re not that ugly...” she winks. 

“Never wink at me again.”

“So did he?”

“Of course, if you count pettiness as positive flirting.”

 

“Lean on my shoulder,” Patroclus urged, shaking Achilles awake. Under his arm he packed a bundle of new clothes that were approximately to Achilles’ fitting - fairly slim yet loose enough. “Come on, I’m going to show you where the spring fountains are for bathing.“

“Come on sugar, no need to be so coy about what you really want to see,” Achilles wriggled his brows. Patroclus made a disgusted face, trust the boy to say something lewd.

“I cannot imagine how low some doctors can stoop if they use their patients as means to temp their libido,” he grunted. “Now lean onto me.”

“Gladly.” 

They struggled at first, for Achilles didn't exactly prove to be a man of his word and initially avoided assistance, then when it became quickly apparent he wasn't going to be able to strut around the place like an obnoxious prince he no doubt was, accepted an infuriated Patroclus's help, though made a comment about how it’s not so masculine of himself to do so (“If you think accepting help betrays masculinity, then no wonder so many heroes risked their lives for stupid hubris,” Patroclus retorts.). Next time, Patroclus thought, they should've traveled by horseback from the stable courtyard. 

There was no-one at the bathing pools. Achilles was obviously relieved to see clear water; after Patroclus sat him down on the shoreline, he impatiently stripped himself off from his sweat-stained tunic, revealing sun-kissed broad shoulders and a narrow waistline, impressively sculpted muscles on his torso and long shapely legs. He was shameless, even radiantly proud, of the state of his nakedness - perhaps because Patroclus was watching, or he was merely a creature of hedonistic pleasure. Most likely both reasons.

The tide was rising, and Achilles dove right into the waves with a shout of glee after handing his tunic to Patroclus with annoying princely disregard. The waters looked almost artistic, reflecting the blue-green shades from the skies above, the celestial charms of Uranus mixing with the tugging allure of Poseidon's seas. 

It was pretty tempting. Especially, and he was sorry for his piqued interest, when he saw Achilles' lean limbs slicked by water and his muscles gleaming like polished bronze in the pools of the sun.

Achilles turned to look at him. Patroclus was sitting, dangling his feet to touch the water surface. “Strip off your tunic and come into the water with me.”

“I feel great right here, actually.”

“Oh, come on! It's too hot for you, a swim will make it better.”

Patroclus admitted he was incredibly enticed, and after watching Achilles splash carelessly around, he gave in. “Don’t look!” he shouted out. Achilles pretended to obey, turning the other direction, but the prince's gaze flickered to Patroclus over his shoulder when the latter lifted his tunic over his head and jumped into the water.

His cheeks burned, knowing Achilles saw his nakedness, though it was a silly embarrassment - he saw many naked men in his healing experience, but the intimacy of those situations faded away when he got to work on their injuries. He wasn't certain why this felt different, or why he should feel flustered.

Coldness devoured his skin, but he indulged in it with numbing welcomeness. He wasn't the most talented swimmer, but he waded into deeper depths to reach Achilles, who splashed a torrent of liquid on him to which Patroclus retaliated. For his own wicked amusement, Patroclus caught the golden prince when he wasn't paying attention, put a hand between his shoulders, and shoved him beneath the icy waves.

Choking on laughter, he listened to the obscene stream of curses coming from Achilles' mouth when he resurfaced with much haste, blond hair hopelessly drenched to the roots, squeezing droplets from his eyes. Taking slight pity on him through pleased umbrage, Patroclus swam closer to the other boy, daring to part his hair from those eyes and lurched back from Achilles' reach in case he suffered the same fate.

“You dirty little trickster!” Achilles yelled, though he was grinning. “Come back here so I can take my revenge.”

Patroclus did the opposite, wading further away from him. To his misfortune, Achilles was such a swift swimmer, his movements as fluid and graceful as an oceanid's, and Patroclus knew his natural talent was associated with the divine blood of his mother spurning him on in his bones and veins; Thetis was an offspring of the sea herself, after all. 

He squealed (not very masculine of him) when Achilles' hands grasped his hips and drew him into closer proximity. Patroclus squirmed from his grasp, biting his lip down as to not emit a gasp - it was strange, being close to another warm body, a handsome one at that. His feet kicked against Achilles' stomach when the latter attempted to drive him underwater. 

He giggled at Achilles' frustrated grunt, launching backwards into the pool and resurfacing with newfound ease, shaking droplets from his dark hair and baring his throat to the zenith of Apollo's glorious sun. Achilles stared at him, eyes glazed over in a kind of lustful trance.

“Uh, Achilles?” Patroclus frowned, waving a hand in front his peripheral vision. “You still there?”

The Myrmidon blinked, shaking his head at the young physician. “For someone with such a rare dark complexion, you still glow so golden in the sun.”

“I'm sure you have seen many beautiful youths,” Patroclus smiled, hiding his embarrassment, scorning his tendency to blush so much. 

“I do, in addition to every time I see my reflection. But you are quite something, son of Menoetius.”

“Find pleasure elsewhere other than from me - from my understanding, you must already have harbored a list of lovers,” his eyebrows arched in skepticism. Just more careless, relentless flirting from a vainglorious boy. The brief affinity with Achilles that Patroclus thought he experienced diminished in the light of Achilles' gaze upon him. 

“Yes, because complimenting upon your remarkable beauty immediately translates into me wanting to ravish you,” Achilles snapped. “Or granted, fall in love with you! Have you ever heard of a more absurd thing?” 

“Someone like me being loved is absurd?” Patroclus glared with all the resentment he could gather, “then granted I'm glad someone like you is so immune to love as to not make one of your consorts feel so unappreciated in the future.”

He turned his back away, putting as much space between him and Achilles as much as he could. He heard Achilles' angry snort, the other boy increasing the distance with much eagerness. With guilty pleasure, he watched the fine muscles strain with stubbornness against Achilles' back as he tried to haul himself out over the rocks to land. 

After appeasing to his cathartic hurt and irritation, the kindhearted healer inside him made him reach Achilles, and shaking his head, he pushed the prince upwards with his arms so Achilles sat perched on the shore. The wound on his heel was still closed, though it now transitioned into a darkening unseemly shade. 

“O' fair Patroclus, won't thy's lips make mine pain wash away?” Achilles mimed the misery of a damsel in distress.

“If only thee would please shut the fuck up,” Patroclus smiled, scooping a handful of sand and caressing its grains over the injury. 

“Is that even in the instruction guide?”

“It helps to scrape the scabs and lice off you.”

He did this a few more times until Achilles' face twitched into annoyance and he tried to lean down to take care of himself, though he winced when he attempted to reach his injury. “I cannot.”

“That's kind of my job, genius. Not a son of Athena, are you?”

“My mother is as proud and influential as any grand goddess on the Olympian pantheon,” Achilles huffed. 

“Oh? Is that so?” Patroclus lifted his head to look at him. “Tell me about her.”

“You wouldn't be interested.”

“Try me.”

“Every time I see the sea, I think of my mother - her intense stormy eyes, the persisting winds spurning above the water's surface, the savage strength of waves eroding the shore as savage as her soul, the destruction of the sea inviting shipwrecks matches to her thirst for destructive fame. She loves me, but in the sense that her marriage and rape was arranged out of her control, fueling her thundering anger and rebuilding that anger into her ambitious ideology in me, reinforcing the divine side of me in the name of protectiveness and banishing the human boy.”

Achilles' words reflected back at him, in his wonderment to hear actual depth from his words. Perhaps he had been too harsh on Achilles, simplifying him into an arrogant vain philander, and in the wake of such admission Patroclus had no words of his own to offer as comfort. He had no idea about having a mother in the first place, leave alone an inhuman one. 

“My mother, Queen Philomela, died when she gave birth to me,” he said instead. “It's aggravating, I keep hearing all these accounts of her - her fiery and courageous spirit, her resourceful ideas, her untiring mind, her love and loyalty bound to my father. My father, however, seems to leave in passive aggression and deniability of her death, he never mentions her to me if he can help it. And, I don't know, I always harbor guilt that he blames me for her demise.”

“Harsh.” Achilles' face darkens. “He shouldn't treat his only son in such a discarding manner. At least you don't have to dread the constant pressure from your mother to always, always, always be the best of the best, and you never have to face unexpected sporadic appearances of her and her wrath in your sleep.”

“At least you don't have to feel like a misfit with a dead mother among your peers, and get blamed for her death from your own family, always yearning to know her personally.” It was a relief, finally articulating his worries aloud after silencing them for so long, criticizing himself for being selfish for his problems. He grimaced. “But that sounds terrible. So Thetis has the power to appear in your dreams?”

“Yeah, it's our way of communicating. She cannot walk through the scalding desert just to talk to me, now can she? She's a creature of the waters, her heart belies in its depths. She wants me to be one of her own kind, you know. An oceanid or a male Nereid, breathing and living life in the boundless seas or oceans. I know she hates my father, understandably, and feels as if I - being the product of rape - owes her the world as recompense.”

Patroclus could not, for the life of him, imagine Achilles as an underwater deity. He was made for the earth and the sun and the dust, muscles made to strain as he raced through the winds, golden hair designed to hit the sunlight's veil, feet shaped to touch the ground and his hot blood destined to pump restless energy for the fights and the victories. His eyes captured the vibrancy of the open skies when he looked at Patroclus.

“I can't see you as a sea spirit,” Patroclus chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Of course not,” Achilles looks amused. “Cannot stand seaweed and the salty taste of the seawaters. Moving on land has always been one of my many expertise.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really love constructive feedback (and compliments)

**Author's Note:**

> Leave kudos and feedback if you can!


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